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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29194281">Thrill of the Chase</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/toadami/pseuds/toadami'>toadami</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And then some healthy ones maybe, Arranged Marriage, BDSM, Canon-Typical Complex Power Dynamics, F/F, Grief/Mourning, I will not justify myself fight me, Look this fic will have a questionable mix of processing grief and self-hatred and horniness, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Use of Ianthe as self-harm</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:35:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,489</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29194281</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/toadami/pseuds/toadami</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Reverend Parents bet the future of Ninth House on Harrowhark Nonagesimus without her consent. However, at Canaan House she's finally close to making up for her birth---she just has to ascend to Lyctorhood. As extra motivation, someone has offered another terrible option to save her house, should she fail. </p><p>To be honest, I'm going through some shit right now, so this fic is going to explore some dark themes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Coronabeth Tridentarius &amp; Ianthe Tridentarius, Gideon Nav &amp; Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Harrowhark Nonagesimus/Ianthe Tridentarius</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Felicitations</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>To say Harrowhark was surprised to receive a formal request of an audience between her and the Third House would be an understatement, but the piece of flimsy between her hands continued to exist despite her disbelief. </p><p>"Well? What does it say?" hissed Gideon from her side of their Canaan quarters, where she was craning her neck trying to read the letter while simultaneously unlacing her bone-dusted boots after a long day of trials. </p><p>"It is a dinner invitation, from the Third House to ours, set for four days hence." There was silence for a few too many seconds as her muscularly gifted cavalier struggled to calculate what four days from the current date was.</p><p>"Wait, but that's—" </p><p>"I am perfectly aware of which day that is," the Reverend Daughter announced, snapping the flimsy shut. "The only question is, does the Third House know? Or is it a coincidence?" Harrowhark rubbed the tired crease on her forehead while she considered this complication. </p><p>"I think there's another question, Harrow," her cavalier said slowly. "Are you (even though it’s a trap) entertaining this stupid (trap) idea, which screams trap?" </p><p>Ah, yes, there was the matter of that. Quietly, Harrow muttered something she loathed to admit. </p><p>"I don't know.” </p><p>She continued, “let me think about it a day or two—the letter states we need not 'RSVP,' which from context I gather must be some Third House concept for sending a formal reply stating your intentions to attend or not." </p><p>Gideon snorted derisively at the delicate etiquettes of the other houses, and for once the Reverend Daughter was inclined to agree. The ginger began to say something in a warning tone, doubtless to persuade her away from going. </p><p>Harrowhark cut her off, however, doubting her companion could add any argument she wouldn't be able to consider on her own over the next few days. </p><p>"It's late, Griddle. We're both tired. We'll worry about it in the morning." </p><p>Either from her rare use of the word 'we' or her rarer yet suggestion of ‘rest,’ her increasingly useful cavalier was surprised into obedience, and fell asleep within a few minutes. </p><p>Harrowhark was not so lucky, and laid with open eyes for hours carefully weighing the contents of the letter, until her lips were bloody from worrying them between her teeth. </p><p>……………………………………..</p><p>Four days later, the Reverend Daughter and her cavalier stood fidgeting nervously before the door of the seemingly random Canaan House room her invitation had decreed the appropriate space. She was familiar with it, from her first night's exploration aware that behind this solid door lay a simple room with a table set for six and a few lumpy lounging chairs seated by a fireplace. </p><p>Fear of the unknown was not her reason for hesitation. </p><p>She had scoped out the room each night since the invitation to acquaint herself with its thanergetic signature, and now as she reached her power into the room Harrow felt no difference from what it had always been. Seemingly not warded with some nefarious intent, then. </p><p>Fear of traps was not the reason for her hesitation. </p><p>Embarrassingly, her hesitation came from the premise of the cursed thing she was about to willingly engage in: a formal social setting. These did not exist in the Ninth House of her upbringing, and she had had no tutor. </p><p>With nervous energy and to stall a little longer, Harrow turned and once more assured herself that Gideon had applied her face paint properly. </p><p>Just as it had been when she'd checked five minutes ago, and five minutes before that, and so on, the painted skull before her was without flaw (unless you considered those stupid tinted glasses she refused to take off even now as a flaw, which Harrowhark certainly did). </p><p>Needing something to snap at and re-assert control, the shorter woman frowned at the rolled up sleeves ruining Gideon's formal shirt, borrowed from a gleeful Magnus. Both of them were borrowing clothes tonight, herself wearing a (thankfully black) dress recommended by Abigail and pilfered from Dulcinea’s closet.</p><p>The Fifth House was the obvious choice to approach for help with choosing the correct vestments for such an occasion. Not only were they knowledgeable in all these petty affairs the Ninth House had neglected in favor of religious fervour, but they were also the best candidates for the "if I'm not back by midnight rouse the guards and storm the Third House" request. </p><p>It must be parental instincts, making them want to keep all these younger necromancers and cavaliers safe. Harrowhark despised herself for her weakness, but after seven years of orphanage, it felt nice. </p><p>Sturdied by the reminder that someone was waiting up for them with diligence, Harrowhark straightened her spine with steel and knocked on the door thrice. </p><p>An appropriate moment’s pause, and then the dark wooden door opened with a creak, Naberius behind it looking borderline ridiculous in a frilly black and white uniform of some kind, and an honest-to-god cloth towel folded over one arm. His sandy curls were as annoyingly perfect as ever.</p><p>Seated by the fireplace were the yellow twins, one golden in the flickering light and the other looking like margarine. Both rose at their entrance, although only the golden one stepped forward with a practically sincere smile to welcome them and shake their hands effusively. </p><p>Ianthe hung back and surveyed Abigail's handiwork of an outfit with a smirk hovering around the corners of her mouth. The Reverend Daughter refused to feel self conscious, choosing instead to cooly regard the frankly flamboyant dresses of the twins in return. </p><p>Her own dress was certainly tighter than she would have normally preferred, with a daring slit that ran up to just above her knee. Daring on Harrow, at least. On the lankier Dulcinea, it was a more modest calf-length slit. Only a pair of frankly impractical heels prevented the dress from pooling around her feet, and Jeannemary was to thank for those. </p><p>Instead of a bulky and protective robe, the best she had been allowed by the strict Abigail Pent was a somewhat thick cape of midnight blue that fell to her waist and was pinned to her shoulders so it would not cover her vulnerable front—the most important part to cover, if anyone had asked Harrow. No one had. </p><p>Coronabeth wore a dress of shimmering gold that vaguely resembled an ancient chiton but with much more cleavage. It fell to her knees, where it was met by some form of sandals that crisscrossed in straps up the length of her long calves. </p><p>Her sister was unsurprisingly in purple, as these seemed to be the only gaudy colors allowed on the entirety of the Third. Her dress was a less painful-to-the-eyes plum color, draped over one shoulder. Just how many clothes the Third House had seemed to bring to this place was beyond Nonagesimus’s understanding. </p><p>Assessments of each other complete in a fraction of a second, the assembled parties seated themselves at the table, which was already set with some brothy soup. </p><p>Crown Princess Coronabeth took a seat at the head of the table, the Reverend Daughter took the end directly opposite, quietly grateful this placed the Ninth nearest the exit. </p><p>Gideon plopped herself into the chair on Harrowhark's right with dark silent broodiness, the flickering fire reflecting off her tinted glasses set deep in her skull decorated face with quite the intimidating effect, even to Harrow. Perfect. </p><p>Into Coronabeth's lefthand chair the pale twin gracefully folded herself, steepling her fingers thoughtfully as she regarded the two before her. Harrowhark's ever watchful eyes noted the split second question the first-in-line to the throne glanced to her second, nor the quirk in Ianthe's eyebrows as she gave her sister silent reassurance now was the time to start speaking. </p><p>Minute as it had been, she did not miss either the look or its implications. Appearances and birth order aside, it was obvious who held the reins in this dynamic. </p><p>Interesting. Harrowhark’s suspicions, started to gather since day one of the Institute, were confirmed. Coronabeth and Ianthe had a careful and deliberate system, in which the vibrant twin was extra vibrant on purpose, shining with light so blinding, her shadow could do the real work unhindered by attention. </p><p>As Harrowhark's gaze flickered between the two of them, she was startled to find a pair of lavender eyes meeting her dark ones. Ianthe was sitting like a coiled yellow snake, watching her watch them. Usually the skull paint and her own controlled expressions made Harrow a closed book, but under that stare she felt stripped bare and completely read. </p><p>Fuck. </p><p>Now the twin knew she had properly assessed their secret, which lost her all the advantage of figuring it out in the first place. She was going to have to play things a lot more carefully around the Third House. </p><p>Meanwhile, Ianthe’s eyes were still fixed on her. </p><p>Harrowhark dared to meet them, but couldn’t quite understand the expression, only feel its intensity. If she had to name the emotion behind Ianthe’s gaze, the closest thing she could describe was...hunger. </p><p>A shiver ran up her spine, and she felt small. </p><p>Thankfully, Coronabeth had finished making rather one-sided small talk with Gideon about her fencing technique, and she turned to Harrowhark. </p><p>“The Third House offers a happy birthday to you, Reverend Daughter. Your eighteenth, correct?” </p><p>Well, that answered the question thoroughly against this meeting’s date being a coincidence. Harrow hid her racing mind by taking a delicate sip of soup. She resolved to compose herself. They were trying to unsettle her, but it really wasn't important how they knew her birthday. </p><p>“You are correct,” she managed to respond placidly before taking another small sip. The soup was hot, and threatened to burn her tongue, although she was grateful for the lack of strong spices. Another weakness due to her House she had never thought to correct. </p><p>“I remember our eighteenth birthday, don’t you, Ianthe? It was the party of a decade even before the flaming chariots were brought out. Too bad the smell of vomit never did come out of that old rug. I know our mother threw a huge fit over it, crying about a ‘family heirloom that had lasted a thousand years,’ but I always thought it was rather ugly.” </p><p>This, Harrowhark understood and could deal with. Comments meant to make her House feel pathetic and weak in comparison. Did they really call this whole dinner just to try to make her embarrassed? Her skin was much thicker than that. </p><p>Ianthe nodded to her sister’s mirth, and quietly chimed in. </p><p>“What a shame, Nonagesimus, that your own acceptance into adulthood had to happen with these circumstances.” It did not sound very sincere. </p><p>The Ninth necromancer chose to ignore the last comment entirely and instead turned to Coronabeth, almost sweetly asking, “And how old are you now, if you don’t mind me asking?” She was tired of knowing nothing. </p><p>“I am 21, and feel like an old maid,” she said with a conspiratorial smile. “What a difference responsibility makes on one’s shoulders.” </p><p>Harrowhark stifled a snort. Responsibility had been her faithful companion from...before birth. </p><p>Honestly the amount of charm Coronabeth was trying to exude almost made her sick, and she glanced at her cavalier to see if she was similarly unimpressed. To her consternation, Harrowhark saw Gideon leaning into the conversation and nodding along. Ever weak for feminine affects, it would seem. </p><p>She sighed to herself, and accepted that this would be a very tedious evening. </p><p>After she had finished most of her soup, a second course, meat and some greens, was brought out by Naberius, which destroyed Harrow’s growing hopes that she would soon be able to retreat to isolation. This had seasoning she was only able to consume in tiny, painful bites. </p><p>The dinner topics reigned from military news to housal stereotypes to necromantic techniques—at least the last one was interesting, although she felt it would have been far more so if Ianthe joined the discussion more and stared mockingly less. </p><p>In the third course, which Harrow noted with extreme gratitude appeared to be a dessert and possibly the last act of this torturous play, conversation turned to their time at the institute and their intended purpose. </p><p>Harrowhark was glad she had sipped sparingly from the champagne placed in front of her, because it was hard enough to keep up the conversation entirely alone against two or sometimes three when Naberius tossed in his thoughts (her own fault for forcing muteness on her cavalier). </p><p>Her difficulty increased now as she had to carefully avoid sharing things she should not about her discoveries and theories, which was exactly what the Third House wanted her to do. Barbed comments intended to hurt were not the main purview of the evening, it seemed. Tonight was about digging for information, and the twins were giving a stupendous show. </p><p>Obviously they had practice in investigating. Whether by having hosted dinner parties of similar intents for the other necromancers already, or intensive pre-planning, Coronabeth and Ianthe Tridentarius worked with an efficiency and thoroughness that bordered on pathological. </p><p>They worked as a team to try and disconcert her through abrupt and probing questions, taking turns and ever interrupting her, so Harrow would never get the chance to collect herself and think as carefully as she would like. The twins were of one mind, and a lesser mind than her own may have given much away. </p><p>The Reverend Daughter, however, rose to the occasion. She managed to slide oily away from direct answers, and ask some of her own with a polite yet demanding cheerfulness she had observed from the Fifth House and was dying to practice. </p><p>To their credit, the Third House did not succumb, but it was clear that underneath the peals of Coronabeth’s laughter, she was getting close to frustrated. Eventually, politeness dictated Naberius had to step in and clear the last of the dishes away. Harrowhark felt a grim satisfaction in her obstinance. She could retire to her midnight work feeling she had struck a small victory. </p><p>Just about to begin standing and close the night with some meaningless words of thanks, Ianthe spoke up with innocent words, and what felt like a noose began looping itself in Harrow’s mind. </p><p>“Thank you for spending your auspicious birthday with us Reverend Daughter Nonagesimus, and before you leave, I’d like to tell a bit of a funny story.” </p><p>The pale woman was leaning languidly in her dinner chair, looking for all the world careless, except for those damned eyes. Half-lidded as if sleepy, they peered out of her sallow face with cold calculation, and Harrow was once again reminded of a snake. She felt Gideon tighten on her right. </p><p>“When we were fifteen, my sister and I were perusing some old letters of our parents while they were away,” she continued, flashing a rebellious smile as if to dare her to comment on the disobedience against their parents. Harrowhark was not one to do so. </p><p>“We found a series of correspondence dated nineteen years ago (from this year, of course), most surprisingly from the Ninth House and our own.” There was a tension-filled pause in the room. “It seems that the old Ninth wasn’t too well off and was looking to secure some greater resource connection through an advantageous marriage to their young cavalier prime, Ortus.” </p><p>Gideon’s muscles spasmed and Harrow found herself placing a calm hand on her knee under the table. This was not the apex of the story, and they mustn’t show their hand yet. </p><p>“Based on the letters, it seems this same request was sent to a few of the houses, but from ours none of the inquiries panned out once whatever brave merchant family looking to raise their esteem actually met the fellow. Ghastly personality, apparently even at 16.” </p><p>“Don’t be rude, Ianthe,” her golden haired sister batted playfully. “The letters never did explain Ortus’s final fate, but clearly it wasn’t cavalierhood, as he was worthily replaced by Gideon before us. Was it a foreign marriage that took him away?” She turned doe eyes on Harrowhark, who removed her stealthy hand from leg now that nothing brash was at risk of being done. </p><p>She replied evenly, unaffectedly. Harrow did not believe they knew or cared about Ortus’s end, and she was not going to give them reason to suspect anything now. </p><p>“I don’t know, truthfully. I was so young when he left...but I believe he had some familial connections to the Eighth? Regardless, he served his purpose for my house in full.” </p><p>Ianthe smiled with reptilian intent before speaking next, and in her mind, Harrow felt that noose tighten by one loop. </p><p>“Well it would certainly seem he solved whatever difficulties your parents were experiencing within their house, because a year later you were born, and that is where the funniest part of the story comes in.” </p><p>Coldness spread throughout Harrow’s body. She did not dare to look at Gideon, did not dare to blink too fast. Did they know what her parents had done to secure her birth? Were they going to confront her now, call out the abomination that she was through her creation, seek justice against the Ninth? Harrow steeled her nerves for the next words out of that colorless mouth. </p><p>Ianthe continued. </p><p>“Did you know that upon news of your birth, our parents re-opened discussion of a unifying marriage? This time they directed their inquiries between you, heir to the Ninth House, and their youngest daughter. Upon completion, the Ninth would be absorbed as an independent state within the Third House, in return to give as many resources in monies and people as desired.” </p><p>The world froze, then began to spin again twice as fast. She almost missed it in the insidious wording, but Harrowhark knew who the youngest daughter of the Third House was. They only had two goddamned children, and the younger seemed intent on sharing some inside joke with Harrowhark at the moment using just her pale lavender eyes. </p><p>This was not something she had known. Never had a word of a possible union between her and—she swallowed her revulsion—Ianthe Tridentarius ever passed her parents lips. What the fuck. She couldn’t breathe. </p><p>“Your parents declined the offer firmly and politely. Apparently the situation was not nearly as dire as it had been a year ago, and the heir to their bleak throne was not on the table to bargain.” </p><p>Now Harrowhark could breathe again. Reality seeped back into her bones. A universe in which she was promised to pale, intolerable Ianthe was impossible. Laughable. </p><p>“Isn’t that the funniest story you ever heard? Had it not been for the resolve of your parents, we could have had joined destinies, Harry.” The sudden use of an overfamiliar nickname sent a jolt of alarm through Harrowhark. The Reverend Daughter had never been called a nickname in her life, and its use now wrapped around her neck like more tightening of that noose. Too tight, now. </p><p>The scheming twin pressed her advantage as she leaned forward, still smiling as if the story were in any way funny and not simply horrifying and offending to the senses. </p><p>“That’s the part that stuck with me all these years since that discovery.” Years. Ianthe had had years to think about Harrowhark, to imagine the dark universe in which she was hers. The thought was violating, somehow. While she was a teenager and off existing, as teenagers do, that vile girl had had thoughts about her with (completely undue) possessiveness in her heart. </p><p>“It was your parents that severed the possibility, not mine. Your parents who held that they had solved the poverty, failed crops, and prevalent disease which pervaded the Ninth House, all in one little year.” Noose tighter and tighter, pressing hard on her trachea. </p><p>“You know what I think, Harry?” That despicable name again, but she was still too frozen in shock to respond with some cutting remark. </p><p>“I don’t think those problems were fixed at all. I think your parents passed the responsibility of saving the Ninth house to your shoulders, and set themselves to making you the best necromancer to grace their halls in its thousands of years of history.” </p><p>Ianthe offered a generous shrug with those angular shoulders. </p><p>“You are, you know. Smart enough that you’ve probably already halfway solved the puzzle of Lyctorhood that this cursed house holds. Skilled enough in necromantic power to outshine most of the others, even though at barely 18 you’re one of the youngest here.” </p><p>Lyctorhood. The reminder of why they were all here, the sudden backdrop of something real against this awful, sticky web of a story, calmed her and opened her throat enough to take a shaky breath. </p><p>“The question is, dear Harrowhark, do you think you’ll be able to see this mission to its completion? Will you run out of stamina first, or creativity? Will your big brain let you down when you need it most? What will you lose when you cannot solve this puzzle in time...or ever? How will your house recover when you, the last desperate bid for a shine of former glory, fail them?” </p><p>The Reverend Daughter’s eyes sprang back into focus with the easy familiarity of this assault. An attempt to rattle her, make her doubt herself, convince her of her failure. Those tactics would never work against her, and the Third House were fools for trying. If anything, they made it easier for her to snap out of the terrible spell the first assault had put her in. </p><p>“Is there a point to all this, Tridentarius? Or are you just obsessed with the sound of your own voice?” Harrow’s own voice was bored, languid, unaffected. The twin's breath quickened for a second at the interruption. Her lavender eyes narrowed with excitement. Finally Ianthe’s opponent was offering a challenge.</p><p>“My point is this. One day, within these very walls, you will fail, but there is no need for your house to fade with you. You are an adult now and can make your own decisions about your fate. You need not bear the failings of your parents any more. The Third House’s offer of gainful domestic union still stands.”</p><p>Harrow blinked. She had not expected that. </p><p>Dimly, she felt pure rage begin building in her cavalier, and were the whole situation not so unreal, she might have felt it for herself also. As it was, she could not view any of it seriously.  Did she even hear that correctly? She felt like she’d inhaled too much incense.</p><p>“Your parents—” the conniving bitch was cut off by a breathy, almost hysterical laugh from Harrowhark Nonagesimus. It grew in noise, but lost its hysteria, until it was a mirthless laugh filling the room, utterly devoid of any feeling. What Harrowhark was feeling was disappointed in herself for being caught off guard so many times, but she sharpened it like a knife in her hand. </p><p>“My parents are dead.” A choked intake of breath from Gideon. Hm. Perhaps the necromancer should have briefed her cavalier on this part of the plan, but she continued with her pre-plotted story before her surprise could become an issue. “Or they soon will be.” </p><p>It was the Third House’s turn to be caught off guard, finally, and they took it to a comical degree. Ianthe’s eyebrows were near her hairline, Coronabeth’s mouth was actually hanging agape, and Naberius’s stupid towel slipped from his arm to droop on the ground next to him. Harrowhark spoke on. </p><p>“When I was called for this journey, they retreated to their rooms with vows of extreme penitence until my return. Silence. Darkness. No coats, heaters, blankets. Fasting of food—all but water. We’ve been here a month already, and the Reverend Father and Mother never had much to spare meat on their bodies to begin with.” She could feel the eyes on her, transfixed. </p><p>“I am no fool. If they haven’t already succumbed to the cold or hunger, they will long before this journey is over. I am not an heir anymore. I am the Ninth House in flesh, and no one will stop me from deciding my own future ever again. Do you want to know what I think, Ianthe Tridentarius?” She enunciated each syllable in the name with mockery. </p><p>“I think you’re trying—badly—to discourage me from this path because you know that I. Will. Win. Don’t pretend you care about the survival of the Ninth House; if I weren’t a threat, you would simply watch me fail with joy. You know there is an honest to goodness chance I will succeed, and that terrifies you. As it should.” </p><p>Harrowhark stood from the table violently, and was gratified that Gideon followed but a hair’s breath behind. There was fire in her eyes, she knew it, and she revelled in it. Now the anger of the presumptiveness of the Third House filled her. They all disgusted her, and she was going to destroy them and enjoy it. </p><p>“I will ascend to Lyctorhood, renew the Ninth House, and I will spit on your bones while I grind them into dust with my heel. My cavalier will best yours. My House will best yours. I will best you. On the Locked Tomb, and on my own blood and bones, this is inevitable.”</p><p>She turned to storm off, but was arrested by Ianthe’s voice, quiet but exhilarated with a promise of violence. She sounded as if she could not have been more pleased with how this dinner turned out, surprising as the events may have been to all. </p><p>“Have it your way, Nonagesimus. Seek Lyctorhood, and know that our offer still stands. You want to talk about inevitability? Whether it is before or after you realize you will fail, one day you will pledge yourself to the Third on your fucking knees, and when it happens, I will make you regret that it did not happen today.” </p><p>Harrowhark could not stand to be insulted one second longer. She swept out of that claustrophobic room with her cavalier the picture of righteous, muscley anger behind her, letting her rage carry her to their quarters, where she paced until dawn light began to break through the windows, plotting the doom of the Third House.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Snare</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>An oppressive hush had fallen over Canaan House since the discovery of the bodies of the Fourth House. Even with all the remaining necromancers and cavaliers gathered in the library, it was too quiet. Far better it would have been with the undertones of teenage anguish keening in the background, or the neverending chatter of Magnus Quinn and his wife about history. </p><p>This had to be the first time everyone had gathered in one space since that dinner party, unless one counted the corpse-investigation that had followed later that night. Although, the scattered huddles of two feverishly doing their separate researches spread across the library barely qualified as “gathered.” It was as if the only thing worse than being isolated while a murderer rampaged, was being close to anyone who might be suspect. </p><p>That was to say, anyone. </p><p>Harrowhark had her own ideas about who the guilty party was, and they seemed absolutely confirmed by the glaring absence of exactly one resident in this unspoken study party. </p><p>It had been suspicious enough for Ianthe Tridentarius to take a sudden interest in learning fencing, but her insistence on leaving her Third House entourage behind, that was what cemented the culpability for Harrowhark. Skulking around alone was something the Revered Daughter could understand, but to leave one’s cavalier behind in such a dangerous time? </p><p>The only wonder was why no one had openly accused her on trial yet. </p><p>Well. Harrowhark was tired of waiting for someone else to do something, so her and Griddle had concocted a plan. It was dangerous and possibly just stupid, but waiting around for more of them all to be killed off two at a time was like having her skull steadily drilled into. </p><p>So after a fairly small space of time, the Ninth House was the first to step up from their corner of books and leave the library. A moment was spent ensuring they were alone in the hallway, then Harrow effortlessly raised a construct and draped her outermost cloak over its shoulders. </p><p>The thing had been made to fit her dimensions, and as she watched it and her cavalier walk toward their rooms, she was convinced it would satisfy any casual observer who might try to tail them. Gideon’s part of this plan involved pacing all the way to their room with the construct Harrow, waiting exactly 60 seconds, then slipping out alone to meet her necromancer at the suspected location of their target. </p><p>The real Harrow ghosted in the other direction completely, her nerves abuzz. It was finally time. </p><p>……………………….</p><p>Before she entered the training rooms, Harrowhark sent out a probe of her power, searching for signals of a trap. They did not find any of a necromantic nature, but Ianthe's thanergy was loud, present, close. It was easy to pinpoint the exact spot that slice of stale white bread was occupying. She was standing still within some small sub-room. Waiting? </p><p>Harrowhark shook her head. For her to know this was coming would be insane. The sheer amount of bullshit this woman—this monster—had put everyone through was driving her to paranoia. It was time to finally put an end to this nightmare. </p><p>She shook her head to clear her thoughts and slid into the dark room like a wraith, not bothering to turn on the lights. </p><p>There was a noise of some machine, right where Ianthe's equally noisy thanergetic signature was exuding from. Silently, gracefully, Harrow crept forward. Some sort of delicate warm fog was creeping from around the corner, but whatever it was, there was absolutely no sense of necromancy to it. A natural occurrence, then, and irrelevant. Ominous as it may be.  </p><p>Cautiously, ever so carefully, she padded around the corner toward her prey. Then was brought to an abrupt halt by what she saw. Harrowhark Nonagesimus had been prepared to find many a terrible sight in the training room, but she was not prepared to find Ianthe lounging across a mirrored counter in the showers room, shirtless and holding a gun to her own head.</p><p>Wait. Not a gun. It took a second for the name of the contraption to come to Harrow, as she had never had need of one herself. A hair dryer. Ianthe was thankfully turned away from her, giving the Reverend Daughter a splendid view of only her water droplet-stained back as the other woman continued her self-ministrations. </p><p>Some sort of noise must have escaped Harrow then, because Ianthe stiffened and turned her head. Upon seeing Harrowhark standing there, frozen, a wolfish grin consumed her face and she turned the rest of her body to match. </p><p>Heat flushing her face, Harrow snatched her gaze to the ground (oh, not fog but shower steam) in terror before she had to face that, then remembered why she was here. She breathed, steeled herself, willed no blush to find its way to her painted cheeks, and resolutely stared down (only the face of) her quarry. </p><p>Her quarry, meanwhile, issued a low throaty laugh, letting her damp hair fall across her face in sheets. </p><p>“Why, hello Harry,” she murmured so sensually that the shorter woman burned. “What ever can I do for you?” </p><p>“Shut up, you venomous creature. This isn’t—I’m not, here for...that,” she said lamely. This was frankly embarrassing. She was Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus of the Ninth House and the Locked Tomb, and she would not be thrown off by a naked body. Especially not half of one, belonging to the sallow, jaundiced creature before her. </p><p>“Tired of playing with your boringly loyal cavalier? Did you come down here to finally get on your knees for me? Did you pluck up the courage to find out what it means to be someone else's toy?” Ianthe’s half-lidded bedroom eyes were taunting her, and it was the uncharacteristic lack of even partial sincerity that made Harrowhark hesitate. </p><p>She forced her gaze to flit over the body in front of her, searching for threats, but found none. Nor did she notice that Ianthe’s recent interest in strength training had paid off in the slightest filling out of her anemic torso. Harrowhark definitely did not note the way the legs in front of her were shown off by the tight training pants covering them. </p><p>No clear weapons, so no unknown threat lurking to halt her now. Ideally Gideon would burst through the doors any second and help beat the everliving shit out of this shade of a woman, but as that had not happened yet, Harrowhark was forced to woman up and start this showdown on her own. </p><p>“Put a shirt on or don’t, I don’t care. But I’m here to end you, Tridentarius.” </p><p>Lavender eyes glittered back at her with anticipation and malice. Not surprise, Harrowhark noted grimly. That was less than ideal, but it still didn’t change the prime directive she came to this room with. </p><p>“Revealing yourself at last, are you? Well Harry,” she drawled dangerously, but then her tone shifted to something softer. “I’m sorry it had to end this way. I would have much rather had you for my wife.” </p><p>The last bit made Harrow’s skin crawl, to think that this psychopath still charaded that goal, but at the same time, the tone confused her. There was a tinge of sadness, genuine disappointment, in Ianthe’s voice. The sincerity she had been lacking when first seeing Harrow, now present. The dark haired necromancer pushed it to the back of her mind. She had a duty to fulfill. </p><p>“My shirt’s in the training room major, by the way. I would like to put it on before we get started, please.” </p><p>Proving herself to be twice the woman of this Third House charlatan, Harrow backed up carefully, allowing her target the dignity of dressing. Also relieving herself of an unneeded and unasked for distraction. </p><p>Ianthe practically swaggered over to her discarded shirt by a wall, those tired eyes tracking Harrow backing into the middle of the room as much as Harrow tracked her. There was no fear in those eyes, only a gaze that switched from anticipative to predatory. Was this the last sight Abigail and Quinn saw? </p><p>Well, probably they saw the sight that came a few seconds later, after Ianthe had slipped a bra and shirt on with a gratifying lack of grace. It seemed she was human and capable of bumbling around, after all. </p><p>Human and incredibly vain, based on how many seconds she devoted to tucking her billowy white shirt into her dark pants and adjusting the cuffs properly, clearly unwilling to have a fight without both full range of motion and impeccable style. Harrow let the lanky woman take her time, knowing that each moment of delay only brought her own cavalier closer. </p><p>“Tell me Ianthe, is the whole of Third House complicit? Or are you on your own, driven by some need to prove that the charade you and Coronabeth concocted was never necessary, that you were good enough alone and could do whatever you wanted without having to have an accomplice?” </p><p>Harrowhark didn't know why she was saying these things, what she was trying to achieve. Maybe she just wanted a confession, to make the job ahead easier. </p><p>Instead, Ianthe just laughed, and began moving in a wide circle. Harrow mirrored her, unwilling to give or gain ground yet. </p><p>“Now is when you ask about my relationship with my sister?” She shook her head and her eyes hardened. “Harrowhark, you have no idea how far off base you are. Don’t slander us with division.” </p><p>“Oh come on, are you really telling me it never stung, watching her always in the spotlight while you slunk out of sight? You never wanted to get all the attention and have her hide away in the shadows?” </p><p>Harrow was reaching here, uttering nonsense, wildly trying to prove to herself that Ianthe loved nothing and no one. </p><p>“Nonagesimus, you drooling idiot.” Ianthe’s teeth flashed, more a showing of canines than a smile. </p><p>“You buffoon. You tiny, murderous, easily manipulated monster.” The blonde necromancer was stretching up and down lightly as she paced now, as if she was casually warming up for an insignificant race. </p><p>“No. No, I was never, and am never, jealous of my sister. Because,” she drawled out as if explaining this to a particularly dense child, “we actually do take turns in the shadows.”</p><p>Then came the worst sound Harrow had ever heard: a rapier sliding free of its sheath in the dimness behind her. </p><p>Whirling, she hoped for a millisecond that what she saw was a trick, a mirror Ianthe had placed to make it look like there were two of her, one with a drawn sword. The hope didn’t last long, because the new form had curlier hair and clearly defined muscles. Coronabeth was there, now circling opposite her sister, and in the middle of their dance was Harrowhark, alone. </p><p>Coronabeth was supposed to be at the library. She had been, she had been there when Harrow and Gideon had left. She had no reason to come here, none to suspect a thing, unless twin telepathy was real and had summoned her with arcane focus. No. There was no way for her to figure out what was going on since Harrow left, which meant that...she must have already known. </p><p>This was a trap. </p><p>A pit of fear wormed itself into Harrow’s body, and threatened to grow as another thought occurred to her. It really had been too long since they’d split up for her cavalier to still not be here. </p><p>“Gideon?” She asked the air tremulously, not caring how pathetic it may have sounded as long as she didn’t hear the worst possible scenario. </p><p>“Naberius is handling her. I came straight after you both left—how easy it is to exit a social engagement after someone has already departed!—not foolish enough to actually leave my partner alone with an enemy. Unlike yours,” Coronabeth said. </p><p>She seemed too full of life to be the monster, hunting down and killing people she laughed with, drank with. If anything, Coronabeth was glowing more than ever with righteousness as her feet traced careful patterns in an arc around you. None of it made sense, but one detail of what she said stuck out to you. </p><p>Naberius may have been able to beat Gideon in a defined duel, with rules and off-limits, but in an all out fight for survival, the Ninth cavalier would come out on top every time. Had the twins really underestimated her? It didn’t seem congruent, but maybe if Harrow could just hold out long enough for her backup to arrive, they could make it out of here. </p><p>She leaned into the balls of her feet, tensing and loosening her muscles in preparation, keeping herself angled between the stalking predators that circled her with deadly grace. She kept her breathing under control, she mentally took tally of the various bone shards at her disposal, and when Harrow slowly reached up to tug her earring off, Coronabeth struck forward, snarling, </p><p>“This is for the Fourth, you bitch.” </p><p>To which she barely had time to think: wait, what the fuck? before scattering a ribcage wall between her and the lunging woman, then turning to see Ianthe descending like an asp.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I imagine that at some point Ianthe said 'haha I can't believe you're going to make me take off my shirt and flirt with Harrow, but if the plan absolutely hinges on it I guess I will, for the plan' and Coronabeth responded 'literally no one is making you do that'. </p><p>Anyway, this next chapter is going to be...unpleasant.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Circles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content Warning: Ianthe. In canon I feel she is not very nice, and I have not attempted to make her so here. But I do find it delicious.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harrow’s mind couldn’t help but swing back to that terrible dinner on her birthday, when she had thought the twins teaming up to interrogate her a terrifying spectacle. That was nothing compared to this. </p><p>It was like a flood on one side and a recurring lightning strike on the other. Ianthe pulling hair out of her pockets to fling toward Harrow, by the time they reached becoming her heavy nets twice her size. Hardened bits of flesh flying like bullets in between. And when she would dodge the nets, or pause to disintegrate the bullets inches from her face, she found herself already in the path of Corona’s vicious blades. </p><p>The vibrant twin had a rapier in her left hand, a dagger in her right, and she was wielding them with such deadly precision Harrow would have wondered why they bothered with Naberius, if she'd had time to think. She did not have time to think, and let her instincts take over for necromancy while focusing all available brain space to dodging the unceasing onslaught from Coronabeth. </p><p>The first time she got hit, it was because she was a microsecond slow in pulling bones from a braid in her hair to throw at Ianthe. The bones were already forming a construct as her fingers untangled them, but as she hesitated on one knot, Coronabeth's blade opened a shallow gash in her side, so fast she only saw the parting skin and not the metal. Harrowhark skidded backward to buy enough time to launch the skeleton from her hair, but she didn't have time to see if she hit her mark.</p><p>She managed to see, or sense, the next slash, and raised a knuckle shard from the ground into a much larger piece that could at least take the impact for her. She felt it shatter, but again did not wait to watch it happen, because she knew another attack was coming from behind and preemptively sprang sideways to avoid it. </p><p>Sure enough, a spray of hot liquid landed where she had just been and solidified into fatty, tendon-like binding glue on the battered skeletal remains. Harrowhark kept moving, because to stop moving was to die instantly, and managed to spare a thought to how it finally was obvious how many skilled necromancers had died without landing a blow on their attackers.  </p><p>This was unlike anything she'd ever experienced before.</p><p>The thought, spent while leaning out of the way of the rapier, evidently cost her, as she was not prepared for the following dagger, which her eyes managed to track on its exit from her calf. All the blows were superficial and inconvenient, probably meant to wear her down or tempt her into getting distracted attempting to heal them. </p><p>Harrow was losing track of which blood came from her wounds and what was her blood sweat from so much necromancy. </p><p>A seemingly endless number of attacks continued to fall around and increasingly, on the Reverend Daughter as her breath came in scratchy spurts. A minute in, perhaps, and she was losing momentum to keep dodging indefinitely. Unfortunately, Harrow had no other choice as she held on to the increasingly fuzzy hope of her cavalier’s entrance. </p><p>An interlocking wall of shoulder blades sprang up behind Harrowhark just in time to shake under a rain of blood-borne blades from Ianthe she never even consciously knew was coming. Fuck, this was tiring. Weren’t they tired? Another cut stung across her brow as she rolled to the right to avoid the crashing down of her scapular wall under a second wave of fatally sharp organic matter, and blood trickled down to her eye. </p><p>Harrowhark didn’t know how much longer she could hold out, and as she realized her count of hidden bone shards had reached single digits, she lost hope it would be long enough for Gideon to arrive and save her. Truthfully, she could no longer muster the belief that Gideon’s presence would be enough to even the odds if she were to crash into the scene like an avenging angel of ginger death. </p><p>Harrow's only grim satisfaction came in hearing the twins panting just as much as her, and the smile she spared cost her another shallow cut to her left thigh. She hadn’t really been keeping track of the number of cuts, but as she formed a platform of humeri under her feet to surge her backwards, ironically close to the actual sparring area now, she could sense the drain from her many biting wounds. </p><p>She had to admit—from within a raised ribcage shield that was being overrun with growing globs of fat—it was a genius strategy, actually, to deplete your enemy with so many non life threatening wounds—she had to raise her own spinal vertebrae to avoid a rapier slash—they couldn’t possibly—her left arm was just hit by a hardened flesh bullet and that cracking noise was not good—fight them all—she feinted a slip on the floor, twisted her legs to spray bone dust and got enough time to scramble away—without losing too much energy yourself. </p><p>Then, when the opponent was slowed, damaged, and distracted—Harrowhark mused, as her injured arm gave up on her commands to hold the remains of an oss shield and it fell to the ground, leaving her utterly exposed—would come the final barrage of forceful, killing blows. When Coronabeth paused and drew her blades back to herself, Harrowhark saw it was time. She barely managed to clumsily fall/leap backward just as the warrior leapt forward with a lethal stab. </p><p>Even with the fraction of a second head start, the rapier penetrated an inch of Harrow’s abdomen, which hurt like hell but she couldn’t focus on it as Ianthe had already ripped out her own tooth and flung it at Harrow’s heart with precision so perfect the pale twin must have already known exactly where the necromancer would land before her sister had even started to strike. </p><p>Harrow couldn’t dodge this and wasn’t strong enough to stop its force entirely, so her body reacted the only way it had left, and her hand cupped around the tooth, embracing the blow to her own chest, hand willing it to flatten and broaden the area of impact, carrying her backward ten feet and knocking the wind out of her instead of blasting its way through her. </p><p>She landed on her feet somehow, in the center of that blasted fencing circle, but could not will her leaden limbs to move or her lungs to breathe. Time hung suspended for a crystalline moment, Harrow’s entire arm that molded the impact numb and red, the tang of blood filling her nostrils, and one last move in her repertoire that Harrowhark Nonagesimus prepared to use. </p><p>The twins flashed forward, and the Reverend Daughter concentrated on every bone in her uselessly weak body, willing them into instant vibration. She prepped her skeleton to explode outward as shards of death the moment another body came into contact with her. </p><p>She would not survive, but the Ninth House necromancer would be damned to hell if she let these murderers carry on their spree. </p><p>She watched in near slow motion as Coronabeth’s singing rapier swept toward her in a wide arc, and Ianthe’s arm swung up, surely carrying a fistful of Harrowhark’s death. </p><p>Instead, something incomprehensible happened. The twins’ perfect synchronization, their unearthly grace and knowledge of each other’s moves, disappeared, and Coronabeth’s blade bit not into Harrow’s organs, but slashed a wide gash open on Ianthe’s arm. </p><p>Ianthe in turn did not cry out, but lowered her forearm with a purpose, not just letting but guiding the blood to spray from her wound, then leapt back as a red light flashed upward from the ground. </p><p>Harrowhark was blinded from the light, or the stars in her eyes from blood loss and more physical exertion than she had done in a month. But when her vision returned in spots, she saw the blonde twins backing away with heavy breaths, holding each other up, and when she looked down she saw a blood ward surrounding herself. </p><p>Technically blood wards were meant to keep someone out of an area, but this one had been inverted quite creatively. </p><p>So, everything outside of the small circle Harrow occupied was considered inside the protective blood ward. She presumed the effects must fade at some distance from it, for even Ianthe had limits, but Harrow was cut off from such a point. How long could Ianthe hold this ward? </p><p>With its undefined borders it must be putting a tremendous strain on her, but whether it held for a few minutes or an hour made no difference. At this time, Harrow could not cross the barrier; nor could her necromancy. The ward would hold long enough for them to finish her off.</p><p>With rising hopelessness, Harrow worked through the mechanics of what just happened. The ward hadn’t been completed until that last move. One segment of bloody line had lain missing, so she hadn’t sensed it when she searched the room for thanergetic traps before entering. </p><p>Brilliantly cunning. Especially considering inverted blood wards were not an existing theorem. Ianthe had invented a new despicable use for necromancy, just to corner her prey with impossible precision. Every move the twins had made, calculated perfectly, just to get her in this spot. </p><p>It was more than Harrowhark could process. She had been so overmatched, so well played, and for what? They had had her at the end of the death blow anyway...why not go through with it? Was it pure sick pleasure of the hunt? Were they going to toy with her now, making it a slower and more painful death to equal how hard they had worked to earn it? </p><p>The Reverend Daughter let her legs collapse beneath her and could not contain a few silent sobs. Through her tears, she observed the way the twins were grasping each other’s arms, checking each other for serious wounds tenderly. These were the same two responsible for the broken bodies of kind Abigail and warm Magnus. </p><p>Coronabeth let out a shaky laugh, that built into an exhilarated boom as the high of relief and victory replaced her fading adrenaline. She steadied herself on her paler twin, who looked more somber but with triumphant undertones. </p><p>“Damn it Ianthe, when you went down under that veritable wall of sharpened ribs, I thought—God, I thought she’d gotten you. What a chase.” The larger-than-life woman attempted to brush off the bone-dusted knees of her beige pants and frowned as it had little effect. </p><p>Meanwhile, Ianthe turned her attention to investigating the blood ward, walking around its entirety and ensuring it was without flaw. She deigned to raise her ever-tired gaze to Harrowhark’s pathetic form, and the eyes were smug. </p><p>“Yes, that was certainly a much bigger challenge than I expected. You did not want to go easily, did you, you freaky goblin?” A warmer glance to her sister, then. “Thank you, Corona, for always keeping your head. You did your part exactly right, and it worked, just like I promised it would.” </p><p>It made Harrowhark sick, that they could seem to care. That they had soft nicknames for each other. It would be infinitely easier to believe them monsters in and out, but somehow, inexplicably, they seemed human. Harrow pictured the faces of Jeannemary and Isaac, and how mangled they had looked in death. No, she would not believe this masquerade.</p><p>“Now, to take out the trash.” </p><p>The Princess of Ida began pacing around that necromantically speaking, wonderful cage she had built with her own blood. After a moment, Coronabeth gave up on dusting her pants and took up position diametrically opposite. Again with that damned circling, but the Revered Daughter was immune to fear now. </p><p>“I don’t get it, Ianthe,” she breathed out from her prone position. She was about to die, yes. About to suffer, surely. But the ever scholarly Harrowhark Nonagesimus, with her last moments, wanted to learn the answer to one more puzzle. </p><p>“Abigail and Magnus. Their bodies were not moved from the point of death. All the gathered necromancers agreed that the spot they lay was the one they died in. But there was no trace of a blood ward? </p><p>“Same with the teenagers. Gideon saw them die and could barely tell me what happened, but I am confident she would have mentioned...this,” she said, gesturing to the inverted scrawl containing her. The Third House twins were looking at her with furrowed brows, as if they didn’t get what she was trying to ask. </p><p>“I mean, you clearly didn’t need a ward with me. You had me. I saw my death in your blade swinging at me, Coronabeth, and instead you use that to push me into a circle of blood and trap me? It was over! You won! Why did you go to all this effort in the first place? You were toying with me the whole time, it’s not like I ever stood a chance!” </p><p>Harrowhark was sobbing brokenly now, voice raised enough to make her hoarse. </p><p>“Why am I still alive but they died by your hand instantly? So you can torture me, because you hate me that much more than the Fourth and Fifth?! At least that makes sense, that I can understand, because I am a wicked woman and they were young and kind and you murdered them anyway, you fucking sadistic witches!” </p><p>Above her, between heaving breaths, she saw the twins share a quick glance. It seemed to communicate a question, debate, and resolution in a microsecond. </p><p>Coronabeth turned back to the kneeling necromancer, and she seemed filled with mental strain. </p><p>“Harrowhark, you are either the most evil, conniving bitch in the stars, or you desperately need a therapist. I—we aren’t the killer, Harrow. Aren’t you?” </p><p>Her chest continued to shudder, but everything else in the room froze. </p><p>“What—no! Wait, what?” </p><p>With sudden clarity, everything made sense. Coronabeth’s cry to avenge the Fourth before her first assault, Ianthe’s genuine sadness while drawing her into the trap. </p><p>They really did care for each other, then, and the Fourth and Fifth. Worst of all, they thought Harrow was the monster. Somehow, in all the careful planning, dancing wordplay, and desperate fighting, she had not convinced them she wasn’t capable of it. </p><p>Ianthe was staring at her more intensely than ever, while the bloodied necromancer calmed her breaths and tried to look less pathetic kneeling on the floor with one broken arm clutched to her side. Unsteadily, she forced herself to stand. If she was about to be put on trial, she wanted to at least keep a remnant of her pride for it. </p><p>The pale woman outside of the cage stared and stared, with the force of her eyes unlocking layers and deciphering codes in the Reverend Daughter before her. Harrowhark, for her part, met that lavender gaze with as little shaking as she could. </p><p>Tentatively, she reached within herself and surmised that there was no immediately threatening damage to her body. Just a mass of flesh wounds. </p><p>“I am not the spectre that haunts this institute, Tridentarius. Neither is my cavalier,” she said quietly and surprisingly calmly. Nothing like switching from imminent death by a monster to possible death for crimes not committed to focus someone’s mind. </p><p>Ianthe’s voice was not loud, but cutting—as if mocking Harrowhark for daring to make such a claim. </p><p>“You were the one who found the bodies of the Fifth. Your cavalier was the only one with the Fourth House when they perished—with the divided teams that you had recommended. I mean, look at the way you fought right now. Do you expect me to believe a normal necromancer could do what you just did?” </p><p>Harrowhark straightened her spine and considered the offered evidence. It did seem fairly damning. This was going to be very difficult, and she had to choose her next words very carefully. </p><p>In case she could not convince the judge, jury, and executioner before her, Harrow shook her injured arm the slightest bit in a practised pattern, and caught the three tiny bones that fell out of their secret pocket. Neither Tridentarius seemed to notice, and the feel of them in her palm gave her strength. </p><p>“I am not a normal necromancer. I am the peak of the Ninth House’s long and arduous journey. </p><p>“I want you to consider, heirs to the Third House, what will happen if you kill me here and now, and in an hour or a week or a month, the next victim falls?” The twins shared another quick glance that carried an hour’s debate; this one seemed to end with more uncertainty than the last.</p><p>“Harry...” The Reverend Daughter hated that nickname with a passion, but now was not the time to fight it. “...there is at this moment nothing more that I want than to believe you, but surely you can see it is simply not a risk worth taking.” </p><p>Harrow drew a breath and spoke again. </p><p>“I know the monster we are hunting is so skilled in deception and murder that there is likely nothing I can say to you to prove my innocence that it wouldn’t also say. So, in your situation, I expect I would react exactly the same. </p><p>“I will not fight this arrest. I will not try to escape. My alibi here in your care is infallible. Simply keep me your prisoner, and when this horror show does not end, know that I was not its villain.” </p><p>Ianthe levelled those half-lidded eyes on the short necromancer, and there was that strange, burning hunger in them again. A collision of distrust and longing was writ on her body. </p><p>Harrow was smart enough not to try to manipulate the affections Ianthe claimed to feel for her. To do so now would be pointless, suspicious, and most importantly, utterly debasing of her. Instead, she waited without moving, and the twins at the moment seemed content to do so also. </p><p>Then there was a building of tremors nearby. Footsteps, in a hurry. Harrowhark’s attention was drawn to the noise briefly before shooting back to Ianthe with lightning speed when the pale twin drew into her boot, pulled out a wicked looking dagger, and viciously slashed at the space where Harrow’s stomach had been before she launched herself backward as fast as her feet could launch her. </p><p>Her back slammed into something both hard and soft, and then the something wrapped around her, and then she realized the dagger had been yet another trick to force her into a trap. She had been in the snare, yes, but intact. Now the metal jaws closed upon her skin, and they were made of Coronabeth Tridentarius’s arms and blades all wrapped around her. </p><p>The dagger was at Harrowhark’s throat, the rapier laying with the sharp edge tickling a line from her pelvic bone to her clavicle. Both were pressed with enough force that one wrong move would slice her open; she dared not breathe too hard. </p><p>She glanced up at Ianthe with wide, searching eyes. She was met with a lazy and triumphant smirk as the last chess piece fell exactly where the color-drained woman had wanted it to. </p><p>The footsteps grew louder into a crescendo that ended with the glorious avenging angel of Gideon the Ninth bursting through the doors to the training room, only to halt immediately at sight of what had probably been her second-worst fear the whole time she’d been running. </p><p>Harrowhark could barely tilt her head the centimeters to see her cavalier from the corner of her eye. Ianthe stepped into the blood ward with confident steps and grabbed the short necromancer’s chin, guiding her face back to lavender eyes. </p><p>The Reverend Daughter considered her options and palmed the bones she still held secret with care. Her whole body was flush against Coronabeth’s behind her, but at least the golden twin held her with the impassivity of a soldier. </p><p>Merely the tip of Ianthe’s finger tracing from the point of Harrow’s chin up her jaw to tuck a pretend lock of her short hair back, however, filled her with nausea. She thought about biting that vile woman’s digit off entirely. As if sensing the thought, the Princess of Ida retreated her offending hand, but still remained leaning too far into Harrow’s space. </p><p>“You want to prove your innocence? Here’s your chance, Harry. Tell your guard dog to stand down,” she said with an insufferable smirk. </p><p>Harrowhark squared her jaw resolutely, hate burning in her eyes, and ground out, </p><p>“Griddle. Stand down.” </p><p>The blade on her neck had tightened so she could not turn her face to look at her cavalier, but she sensed the hesitation trembling in the air. </p><p>“Do not disgrace the sanctity of cavalierhood by making me repeat an order,” Harrow snapped harshly, and as she had hoped, the animosity in her tone was so familiar it sprung Gideon into action. </p><p>There was a clang as what must have been her rapier was tossed to the side, then a smaller thump as the fencing glove surely followed. </p><p>Using the distraction, Harrow turned a quarter of her attention to discreetly melting the malleus, incus, and stapes within her palm into one mass and molding that to the shape of her skin. </p><p>So slowly it was almost indiscernible even to herself, the Reverend daughter began slinking her remaining trick up her sleeve. </p><p>Ianthe meanwhile, was smiling so vibrantly it for once added color to her blanched face. She reached out and condescendingly patted Harrowhark’s cheek. She flinched the smallest bit, and felt the heat of blood slip from where the edge of the blade met her neck. </p><p>“Good girl.” </p><p>The dagger cut a little deeper as Harrowhark seethed. Two seconds without the threat of Coronabeth’s weapons and she could remove every bone from the body of this dreadful wisp of a necromancer. She could melt Ianthe’s brain, or snap each finger in half and shove them down her shitty throat. </p><p>But she knew that before she’d get halfway through moving one arm, the heir to the Idan throne would slice her organs out of her body and that would be the end of the Ninth House. So she did nothing, and let her eyes spit the promise of hellfire she could not yet enact. </p><p>The despicable Tridentarius stood up and walked a few paces away while conveniently making sure to stay directly in Harrow’s forced line of sight. She cleared her throat and addressed Gideon with a bored voice. </p><p>“Ninth House cavalier, you stand accused of murder in the most heinous form, your victims being Jeannemary Chatur and Isaac Tettares of the Fourth House, as well as Magnus Quinn and Abigail Pent of the Fifth.  While we investigate this claim, you will place your hands on your head and lay down.” </p><p>As she spoke, Harrow discreetly spread the thin layer of bone—safely travelled now from her arm to over her heart. She willed the area covered by the paper thin sheet of bone to spread, until her entire torso was covered. </p><p>Then carefully, ever so carefully, making sure to keep the material liquid and malleable so Coronabeth might not notice a sudden lack of give to her flesh, Harrowhark Nonagesimus began thickening the bone armor, one micrometre at a time.  </p><p>Meanwhile, Ianthe’s demand hung in the air, but there was no answering sound of movement from Gideon Nav, and a flash of annoyance ran across Ianthe’s already annoying face. </p><p>“Do it, Griddle,” Harrowhark commanded as imperiously as she could with a blade pressing on her esophagus. </p><p>In an instant, there was an obedient sound of someone’s knees hitting the floor. Ianthe turned to her again. </p><p>“Well that’s going to get old fast. If she’ll only follow your orders, be a dear and order her to do exactly what I say.” Harrowhark glared back at the Third princess. </p><p>The Ninth House necromancer had been caught in a snare, and then had the jaws of the steel trap within it swallow her up. However, in Ianthe Tridentarius’s eyes, victory was not yet complete, because she had not yet received conditionless surrender from her quarry. </p><p>This was not about convenience, it was about submission. </p><p>Harrowhark would rather have stomach acid dripped in her eye than submit to this cold blooded flesh magician. There was no way she could entrust herself to the custody of the Third House to convince them she was not the killer. To do so would be more dangerous than even coming here alone had been. </p><p>She pressed herself forward into the dagger, lengthening the thin line of pain on her neck, and sneered. </p><p>“Never.” </p><p>Murderous anger flashed in those lavender eyes for one millisecond and Harrow revelled in it. She bet it was frustrating to hold all the cards in your hand but still not be able to have the control Ianthe clearly craved. </p><p>By leaning into the blade, she was silently daring the Princess of Ida to order her death right then and there. It was the classic danger of an ultimatum. No middle ground to control small offenses, ones not worth pouring out total destruction for. </p><p>The rage was quickly replaced with a mask of cool calm, but Harrow knew she’d gotten under that yellow skin, and the thought made her smile ferally. The pale twin made eye contact with her sister, then ran her eyes up and down Harrowhark’s body and hummed thoughtfully. </p><p>“Very well. Don’t want to do irreparable damage, so we’ll avoid major arteries.” She tapped one long, careless finger to a spot on Harrow’s thigh. “Here. Three inches.” </p><p>The knife was lifted from her throat for a brief instant, but before she could take advantage of the fact, Coronabeth’s hand flashed forward and sunk the metal three inches deep at the directed spot, then leapt back out again and returned to her neck, slick with blood now. </p><p>The Ninth House necromancer hissed in shock before folding her features into a defiant mask. She forced herself to stay upright with gritted teeth. Pain was no stranger to her. Her adversaries could hurt her however they liked, but she would not give in. </p><p>Ianthe reached forward now and latched her fingers around Harrow's hair, pulling viciously, baring more of her throat and forcing the shorter woman to look into her eyes. They were alight with something cruel. A tongue ran across those bloodless lips before withdrawing. </p><p>“I can play this game all day, Nonagesimus.” </p><p>The Princess to Ida continued to issue some sort of threats, but Harrow wasn’t listening. Instead, she was focusing very, very hard on an extraordinarily thin line of bone she was willing up past the collar of her shirt to meet the dagger pressed on her skin. </p><p>It was too exposed to make an exoskeleton armor layer, so she instead made the bone flow like water along the sharp edge of the blade, coating it with the smallest amount of her necromantic tool. </p><p>When the blade lifted again, she would use that line of bone to flip the knife out of Coronabeth’s intended path (even better if she could get it out of her hand altogether). Her plans past that point were interrupted as she was brought back to the physical world by a long silence. </p><p>Ianthe was looking at her expectantly. She must have just reiterated her demand of surrender. Harrow let a chuckle escape from her mouth. </p><p>“Go fuck yourself.”</p><p>“Fuck me yourself, you coward,” she sneered in an unconcerned voice betrayed by the seething malice in her eyes. </p><p>That pianist’s finger poked her again, this time in the middle of her right shoulder. </p><p>“All the way through should be fine, Coronabeth.” </p><p>Harrowhark tensed, readying for that first lift of the blade. The twin was incredibly fast, and she would have to be faster. In that moment of chaos, she would need Gideon to break the ward immediately so they could run as fast and as far as possible. If it didn’t come down, this would all be for nothing. </p><p>“Holy fuck, stop!” Rang out a voice familiar only to the Ninth. “I’ll do exactly what you say, just please don’t hurt her again.” Gideon’s voice was pleading, sincere. It certainly stopped the next blow from coming, possibly just in the Third House’s surprise at hearing her speak. </p><p>“She can talk?” muttered Ianthe curiously. “At this point I thought maybe she was one of those Sewn Tongue fanatics you hear about from the Ninth.” </p><p>Coronabeth was equally baffled, if the slight slackening of the metal against her body was any indication. </p><p>Harrowhark did not waste the distraction. </p><p>Twisting like an eel, the small necromancer got halfway free of Coronabeth’s grasp before the golden woman recovered from her surprise and brought her rapier in a slash that would have spilled her intestines all over the floor. </p><p>It met bone instead. The armor had already grown to a half inch's thickness without anyone noticing, and as she’d begun twisting the Reverend Daughter had hardened it to metal-like density. The rapier skittered across it in a shower of bone chips and Coronabeth lost her balance. </p><p>Never to be underestimated, the vibrant twin tried to stab into her neck even as she stumbled, but her weapon betrayed her at Harrowhark’s command, twisting in the opposite direction to threaten its owner. She dived forward to avoid it and fell to one knee, the opposite palm flat on the floor. </p><p>Ianthe was turning to them in a daze, bringing a hand up instinctively, but she was too slow. Each of the bone chips that fell from Harrowhark's carapace had already been constructed into a hand, now a dozen of them clambering up the limbs of the Tridentarius twins. Coronabeth, closer to the ground, was restrained before she knew what was happening. </p><p>Harrowhark quickly stepped to the side, the requisitioned dagger’s handle flying into her outstretched arm as she positioned herself behind the tangled twin while the other one was shaking off the skeletal hands trying to similarly capture her. </p><p>No time for dramatics: the Ninth necromancer brought the dagger over the point where Coronabeth’s neck met her spinal cord like an executioner with an axe.</p><p>There was a heavy pause.  </p><p>“Open up this stupid blood ward, you sack of skinned potatoes.” </p><p>It was Ianthe’s turn to let her eyes spit hellfire, but without hesitation she flourished her hand in an arc and a large swath of the ward floated away in red flecks that then disappeared into the air completely. </p><p>Harrowhark felt the release of necromantic energy. She dared to spare a glance to her cavalier; Gideon had already retrieved her weapons. Her eyes flicked back to Ianthe, but the pallid flesh magician had not moved. Too much was at stake for her, apparently. </p><p>Good. </p><p>Harrowhark braced herself, then used the constructs attached to Coronabeth to fling her as hard to one side as she could—the side away from the exit of the room—then she sprung in the opposite direction as fast as her bloodied legs could carry her.<br/>
The portion of the room Gideon was in was lower by a handful of stone steps, but Harrow didn't bother with them at all. She flung herself into space with full abandon, suspended for a second, then was nimbly caught into the arms of her faithful cavalier. </p><p>Gideon turned and sprinted to the door much faster than her necromancer had run toward her, even with the extra weight of Harrow. From this angle, she could see that her bet had paid off and Ianthe had gone for her sister, not even bothering to attempt a chase. </p><p>As the Ninth duo burst through the doors of the training room into the hall, she made eye contact with Ianthe for a still second. </p><p>There was some amount of rage in those lavender eyes, plus murder and revenge. However, another emotion led the forefront. As she watched Harrowhark escape her most carefully laid trap, Ianthe looked at her with thrill. </p><p>………………………………..</p><p> </p><p>Nine minutes later they barraged into the Sixth’s quarters. Gideon did not speak, merely dumped the body of her necromancer, bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts and two more serious stab wounds, not to mention at least one broken bone, on the large bed. </p><p>Palamedes had been calmly reading a book by a rainy window. At their violent intrusion, he leaned back and raised one eyebrow in shock. His cavalier sprang into action assessing the injuries with probing fingers, and began rattling very scientific diagnoses off in quick succession. </p><p>Harrowhark weakly raised her head to face the slight necromancer in the corner, and sardonically announced, </p><p>“We can cross the Third House off the list of suspects.”</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Gossip</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A switch in perspective! I am obsessed with the Tridentarii sisters and have so much I want to explore.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Do you even really want to marry that little bone nun?” </p><p>Ianthe paused in the middle of brushing out her sister's lustrous hair. What a question. </p><p>"You have to admit she's absolutely brilliant," Ianthe said carefully. “And it would be an incredible asset to our House's status. There are far worse matches." </p><p>Her twin seemed unsatisfied with that answer. Ianthe huffed.</p><p>“Never in our entire lives has it been about what I <i>wanted</i>, Coronabeth. Our parents were planning this arrangement when we were three. Far be it from me to give up on their goals when they are back within reach again.” </p><p>Coronabeth pouted (prettily, just as everything she did was done prettily). </p><p>“Why did they want it so badly? I mean, absorbing the Ninth House will be great and all, but is it a worthy enough gain to whore off their own daughter? No offense,” she added as an afterthought. </p><p>Ianthe considered pretending to take offense, if only to gently steer the conversation away from this delicate point. She loved her sister more than all of Dominicus, but there were some matters that were, to put it bluntly, above her paygrade. As far as Coronabeth knew, this was a mission of their own choosing—on a whim. Ianthe intended to keep her thinking that. </p><p>As she continued to comb golden locks, Ianthe regarded her sister. Beautiful, talented Corona, who hid a shockingly intelligent mind under that veneer of vanity. She wasn’t smart in the way Ianthe was, able to memorize dense texts or clinically dissect the separate part of complicated theorems from their sum as a whole. But she could read people, figure out how to manipulate their actions and make them love her, which was something Ianthe could never seem to do, even sincerely. </p><p>Coronabeth’s one fatal flaw was her moral compass. That is to say: she had one, which was terribly inconvenient. </p><p>Even their parents had been able to recognize this single shortcoming of their eldest daughter’s, which was why their mother had pulled only Ianthe aside right after they had received the summons, and advised her on why she should seek to re-initiate an attempt at marriage. </p><p>Ever the dutiful daughter, she had accepted and begun scheming that day. Now, Ianthe was glad to know Harrowhark was in fact innocent of killing off the heirs one by one. She was not completely sure she could have gone through with her parent’s order then. </p><p>“Well, it’s not like they were bartering with the heir herself,” she reasoned lightly, knowing the effect those words would have. </p><p>Coronabeth made a face. She hated being reminded that technically she alone would inherit the throne. Ianthe personally suspected her older sister had devoted intense research into finding some loophole that would allow them a joint reign, but she herself had yet to find one short of an incestuous marriage. </p><p>Yuck—hard pass. </p><p>This brought Ianthe’s thoughts back to her actual fiancée. As far as she was concerned, their engagement was already in place. It had been requested by the King and Queen of the Idan throne, which meant it was non-negotiable and as inevitable as the sunrise. </p><p>Frustratingly, the Reverend Daughter did not seem to understand this. Nor had besting her in the training room (for that brief moment before the Ninth managed a shoddy escape, but Ianthe considered the whole encounter a win for the Third) seemed to convince her of the futility in resisting their fates. Perplexing. </p><p>“Do you think Harrowhark doesn’t want to marry me because she thinks I’m too dependent on you? Maybe if I had fought her alone and lured her into the blood ward, she would have respected me more and gone for it?” </p><p>Coronabeth let out a few musical peals of laughter before catching Ianthe’s impatient look in the mirror. </p><p>“Oh no, you’re serious.” </p><p>The elder and more socially experienced Tridentarii turned around in her gilded chair and placed a sympathetic hand over her twin’s. </p><p>“<i>Sweetie.</i> Have you considered that maybe you’re going about this whole thing the wrong way?” </p><p>As a matter of fact, Ianthe had not, but she tried to consider it now. </p><p>“What do you mean?” </p><p>“Perhaps the quickest way to achieve a marriage with Nonagesimus is to go through her heart,” Coronabeth tried, irritatingly using her tactful voice as if Ianthe wouldn’t recognize it. </p><p>“I should...rip out her heart?” </p><p>There was a heavy sigh, so Ianthe felt she might have guessed wrong. She hated guessing wrong. </p><p>“Just tell me in plain words, Corona,” she half snapped, half pleaded. </p><p>Her older sister stood up dramatically and paced a back and forth in their bedroom. Eventually she turned back and gestured emphatically. </p><p>“I’m saying you should WOO the Reverend Daughter, you violent-minded idiot. Give her a reason to want to <i>marry you</i>, not to sign a contract with the Third House. Chocolates. Honeyed words. Tendered compassions. Surely the nun has a weakness of some sort.” </p><p>Coronabeth was getting excited now, which was good. This was her area of expertise, after all. Ianthe calmly sat on the corner of the bed and produced a piece of flimsy to jot down notes. </p><p>“Ooh, you like spying on people, right? I’m pretty sure Harrow’s got a thing for her cavalier and doesn’t even recognize it herself. Just watch everything Gideon does and see what her adept responds positively to.” </p><p>A lesser woman would have felt a hot pang of jealousy at the news that apparently someone else had stolen her future wife’s affections. Good thing Ianthe was above such crude and unbecoming—oh no, she’d doodled some hulking ginger being stabbed in the neck. </p><p>She took a deep breath, and reminded herself that this information was something she could twist to her advantage. As usual, the thought steadied her. </p><p>“A good place to start is by being a little more pleasant as a whole.” </p><p>“Pleasant,” she echoed uncertainly. Corona turned pitying eyes on her. </p><p>“For example, people like it when you agree with them, instead of pointing out every flaw you can think of in their argument.” </p><p>“That’s stupid. I fail to see how abandoning logic or necromantic truths would gain me anyone’s favor.” </p><p>Coronabeth lifted one beautifully crafted eyebrow at her sister.</p><p>“That. Don’t do that.” She rested her hands on Ianthe’s knees and gazed imploringly at her. “Can you say, ‘you have a good point, Coronabeth,’ instead?” </p><p>Ianthe ground her teeth together, but gave it a try. </p><p>“You have a good point, Coronabeth.” </p><p>Her sister positively beamed. </p><p>“Excellent! Now try, ‘thank you for sharing your wisdom with me, older sister.’” </p><p>“Thank you for sharing your wisdom with me, older sister,” she repeated, but this time tried to add a dash of Third politics and sound like she actually meant it. </p><p>“Amazing! You look almost like you could be mistaken for someone who could be trusted with children one day. Okay, here’s one. Tell me, ‘you are clearly my superior in every way and I will stop using your hair curler to burn holes in Naberius’s shirts?” </p><p>Ianthe stuck her tongue out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not my fault our cavalier’s clothes get maimed every time he’s particularly annoying. Maybe he’s haunted.” </p><p>She got a chuckle out of that. </p><p>“Oh, Ianthe, you’re such a charmer.” Then Coronabeth’s expression turned from teasing to something more emotional. “I hope your dark bride appreciates you when she whisks you away from me.” </p><p>They held eye contact for a long moment. The necromancer tried to swallow, but couldn’t get past a sudden lump in her throat. She reached forward and brushed her sister’s golden hair out of her face. </p><p>“Don’t be silly, Corona,” she said softly. “You’re still my favorite. Nothing and no one is ever going to keep us apart.” </p><p>Before this trip she might have even believed herself.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Desolation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I heavily debated writing a chapter or two more at Canaan House, but truth be told, I conceptualized this entire fic off of one major point, and I think we need to get there. I'm sorry, but all the happy times are behind us now.</p><p>Chapter Warnings: graphic depictions of violence and gore, blood (so much blood), major character death, implied suicidal thoughts, no Ianthe Tridentarius though</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Emergency lights flashed around Harrowhark and Gideon dizzyingly as they dashed through metal walkways without aim. There was no intended destination other than <i>away</i>. Away from the newly revealed Cytherea and her monstrosity of a construct. Away from the unidentified group who had descended upon the First House with guns and a burning hatred for Lyctors, it seemed. </p><p>Harrow didn’t even know if Cytherea was still alive. She had been the first one the group had targeted, which would have been a relief if they hadn’t also made it clear all the House heirs would be next. Whoever it was, summoned by the distress call the Second had given their lives to get out, they were not friendly. </p><p>Which is how the Ninth adept and her cavalier found themselves being hunted through the winding corridors of Canaan House’s underbelly like rats in a maze. The Reverend Daughter felt confident that if she could just have a calm two minutes to think uninterrupted, she could figure out a plan to get them out of here. </p><p>Unfortunately, no break seemed to be forthcoming. </p><p>Had this really only been one day? It was all too much. The Second House breaking. The Third House ascending. The Eighth House stubbornly dying over a pointless cause. Whatever the hell had taken over Colum. Palamedes—if what Gideon said was true...and then Dulcinea. Cytherea. What they had almost done to defeat her. </p><p>Then these strange, anonymous ships landing in the courtyard and across the house, black-clad people swarming out of them like strange bugs. Shooting. Camilla Hect had been hit—in the leg—and they were already scattered so there was nothing Harrow or Gideon could do—she needed to breathe, she just needed to breathe and piece everything together for one whole minute. </p><p>As if to mock her, there was a loud whirring noise, and the lights all shut off. </p><p>Their pounding footsteps slowed to a standstill, and even in the dark, unable to see each other, Harrowhark knew her cavalier had shared her uncertain glance. </p><p>“Hold on,” came Gideon’s voice in the dark. There was a moment of scuffling noise, then a comically small flare of light from a tiny flashlight. </p><p>Shadows loomed ominously on every side, threatening to swallow them up, and Harrowhark wasn’t sure if it was her imagination or not, but strange noises began to sigh around the edges of her periphery. She nervously recalled Teacher’s many warnings of the horrors that lay beneath Canaan, and she again thought of the black-as-void eyes and inhuman smile in Colum Ascht’s face as he snapped his necromancer’s neck. </p><p>She had never thought herself scared of the dark. Yet here, now, Harrowhark was as frightened a child. </p><p>The glint reflecting Gideon’s warm amber eyes was the only thing that calmed her, although she would never admit it. The sight of her sole companion since conception was steadying, and Harrowhark overcame the ancestral fear that had threatened, briefly, to consume her. </p><p>“Guess you don’t need your stupid sunglasses now, Griddle,” she said, and the nickname was an almost playful taunt. She was daring Gideon to admit she was scared, knowing her cavalier would never succumb, and was gratified to see a lop-sided grin emerge from the worried expression on the ginger’s face. </p><p>They continued down the hallway for some distance, only able to see a few feet in front of them through that oppressive darkness that seemed to have a physical presence, constantly bearing down on them. </p><p>Suddenly, the hall ended, and Harrow had to put a hand out to catch her cavalier from walking face first into a wall. The path split. Two black eternities stretched out on either side, neither giving any clue through their darkness where they led. Reaching out with her power, Harrow felt faint traces of thalergy down one, and a yawning emptiness in the other. Blood trickled down her nose, and she did not bother to wipe it away. </p><p>“This way,” she said, taking a step to the right (and the thalergy) at the same time that Gideon motioned to the left and said, “I don’t know how to explain it, but that one feels better.” </p><p>There was an awkward silence. Harrow couldn’t help but fruitlessly flicker her gaze in the direction Gideon had pointed, as if she could discern anything past the feeble glow of the flashlight. The tunnel opening seemed like a great gaping mouth. The hairs on the back of her neck raised in alarm, and she fancied whispers curled around her from that direction, like damp tentacles trying to pull her in. </p><p>She took another step to the right. </p><p>“This way, Nav,” she insisted stubbornly. </p><p>Gideon spared another longing glance to her back before hesitantly falling into place one half-step behind her adept. </p><p>“If you say so.” She squared her shoulders resolutely, as if she could physically shake off ehr concerns. “Of course I’ll follow you, my shadowy monarch.” </p><p>And so they went right. They went right, and for a whole three minutes, Harrowhark felt better.</p><p>……………………..</p><p>Unadulterated horror sank through Harrowhark like a stone, abruptly killing what could have been called the ghost of hope, when her left boot quietly sloshed through a puddle in the metal hall. As if in a dream, she tilted her gaze down to peer at the dark liquid she had stumbled into. Blood. </p><p>This had not been the correct corridor, after all. </p><p>The Reverend Daughter had time to shove a hand desperately at her cavalier and take one stumbling step backward. She did not have enough time to convey an order to flee—with reckless abandon, so Gideon saw her pure fear and stepped forward protectively, the noble fool. Harrow had no time to correct her before the pool of thalergetic fluid at her feet exploded. </p><p>The concussive shockwave of liquid sent both of them crashing away; Harrow’s head angled toward a wall, but she did not remember hitting it. </p><p>……………………….. </p><p>The next thing she remembered was lying crumpled against the wall, feeling so dizzy she might pass out. No, perhaps she had just awoken from that? Voices and lights came into focus, and she was met with a sight that turned the horror coiled inside her to despair. </p><p>There was a small conglomerate of the men and women wearing military gear, carrying an assortment of normal weaponry and ancient, crude guns. One of them had an iridescent robe on, which shimmered in the blinking emergency lights that had now come back on. </p><p>They were all arranged within ten feet of her, the closest one a stocky man within her grasp if she reached out, but none of them paid her any heed. Instead they had formed a semi-circle around her cavalier, who was lying against the opposite wall. </p><p>The white cloaked figure stepped forward to kneel at Gideon’s side, and Harrow’s brain stuttered for a second to find the correct descriptive word for the manner in which the stranger began to place her hands on the unresponsive ginger to assess her injuries. </p><p>Oh, the word was reverence. </p><p>Harrowhark tried urgently to get her legs to stand, but they hurt badly and would not obey her commands. </p><p> </p><p>The stranger inhaled sharply and turned her gaze to some member of the group whose scrawniness could only be necromantic in nature.</p><p>“You put far too much force in that blast, stupid! The material doesn’t have long now. Do you have any idea how valuable…” </p><p>The peach colored woman continued to rant at the stricken looking agent before her, but the words faded into a buzz in Harrow’s ear. “The material,” she had called Gideon, but even that disregard for humanity sank to meaningless in the face of the words “doesn’t have long.” </p><p>Her own obsidian eyes raked over Gideon and tried to discern if she was alive. There was blood, obviously there was blood covering everything and splattered over the walls and floor and probably herself. But there were streams of living blood falling steadily out of what seemed to be every orifice of Gideon’s head, too. </p><p>Her arms responded where her legs failed, even though she could not fully unbend her right one, and Harrow started to scrabble herself forward with panicky imprecision. </p><p>The Reverend Daughter couldn’t see any specific injuries on her cavalier, couldn’t convince herself, somehow, that this was real and not a clever act. But it couldn’t be an act, because the single eye of Gideon’s head that she could see from this angle was not screwed shut with almost comedic force, as her dramatic cavalier would have done were she feigning unconsciousness. The lid hung half open. She could not see any life within. </p><p>A small bubble of blood-filled air came out of her cavalier’s throat, the only possible sign that she was still breathing, still present in any way. </p><p>A whiny voice floated through her hazy mind. “...Said we were after the blood and flesh! It shouldn’t really make a difference if it’s living?” </p><p>“Maybe! But the necromantic theorems involved here are so beyond your comprehension and even my full understanding, so it’s best to play it safe, don’t you think? Pfaugh!” came the merciless response, which continued to harangue. </p><p>“I hate dealing with infants. Do you have any idea how much planning and care went into securing this sample? If you’ve ruined it now I will personally slit you from your navel to your—”</p><p>Maybe she made a noise at that point, or maybe she had simply crawled forward into someone’s peripheral vision, but Harrow’s survival was noted, apparently, and deemed worth attention. A hand roughly pulled her up by her shoulder until she was nearly hanging from their grip, her legs trying again to support her own small frame but still failing. </p><p>“Uh, Agent Joy?” the voice above her questioned hesitantly. The cloaked woman turned from her continuing tirade, and angrily flicked her stormy gaze at the pathetic black-swathed being held before her. The being in question didn’t notice any of this, as her attention had been fully claimed by a new piece of information. </p><p>From this vantage point, Harrowhark could see the other half of her cavalier’s head, and noticed a detail that had heretofore been hidden from her line of sight. </p><p>Gideon’s head had a large dent in it. </p><p>The despair within Harrow sharpened violently. With a roar between her ears, a flood of feeling consumed her for which she knew no appropriate word existed. From some voidlike pit inside her that was darker and deeper than the bowels of Drearburh, her soul started screaming. Deep, deep down, the concept of ‘hope’ abandoned her forever. </p><p>Her timing was appropriate, because her fate had just been decided by her captors. At least that is what she surmised from the steel rapier that was shoved brusquely through her stomach. </p><p>A small gasp was all that her body could afford to spare as it felt like her organs were doused in gasoline and set on fire. The flames surged as someone twisted the blade, then she was unceremoniously dropped like the sack of meat she was, rapier still inside. </p><p>She couldn’t move, but her eyes tracked as someone stepped forward and placed their filthy hands over her beautiful cavalier, tossing Gideon—no, Gideon’s body?—over one shoulder. Boots stomped past her vision, and then Harrow was alone. </p><p>…………………………. </p><p>She did not know how long she lay there, but it was long enough for her to know the wound she had received was cruel, and would not kill her from immediate blood loss. It might take hours. </p><p>It might have already been hours. </p><p>Time escaped her as she stared at that bloodsoaked wall in front of her. All the crumpled heap that once was Harrowhark Nonagesimus could do was stare and stare, trying to conceive of a universe without Gideon Nav in it. </p><p>At least she would not have to live in such a universe for long.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Abjuration</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Against her will, Harrowhark continues to live.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ianthe Tridentarius was picking her way through a random hallway, trying with difficulty not to shake so hard it alerted any of the invaders. </p><p>It had been an eventful day, and the godhood that was coursing through her veins was not sitting well. </p><p>It was hard to keep her thoughts categorized and coherent. What had happened so far? What was happening right now? </p><p>The moments past her ascension were mostly scattered flashes, emotions and instincts more than proper memories. </p><p>Triumph. Incredible power, enough to make her drunk. Being witnessed in all her glory, and <i>finally</i> shedding her lifelong pretenses. </p><p>Fighting the Eighth...an annoying gnat of a man buzzing in her ear, shocking no one when he was batted away.</p><p>An explosion. Another sister revealing herself, another obstacle Ianthe intended to surpass. </p><p>Pain. </p><p>Her world had been pain. Something beyond pain. And then on top of that agony, a severing so terrible it blinded everything else and condensed the universe into one long shriek. </p><p>And then suddenly, reprieve. When she had eventually regained the ability to perceive something outside of herself, Cytherea was laying dead, horrible tumors wrapped around and through her like great fatty chains. There were strange new people as well, who unfortunately wanted her dead. She had probably only escaped the same fate as Cytherea because they had assumed she was already a corpse. </p><p>With that respite over, she had had to fight, which was shockingly easy, even with all the pain and half her usual number of arms. It was like some animal instinct took over, lashing out and stopping beating hearts in the strangers bodies, crushing their living skeletons like soda cans. </p><p>It scared her, what she was capable of. </p><p>So she was now fleeing, trying to avoid detection. Adrenaline had faded and she wasn't sure what she could do, necromantically speaking. Her power was a bottomless ocean, but she was drowning in it. Everything hurt. Her nerve endings were disconnected and flaring up at random, jangling alarms and crying for help when she had no more help to give. Plus one thought, ever haunting her. </p><p>
  <i>Where was Coronabeth?</i>
</p><p>Ianthe was brought back to her physicality by a frightened drumming noise in the hallway ahead of her. Every atom of her being jumped to pump chemicals of alarm and she felt like she actually had to focus on keeping her body from dissolving into an unbound puddle of flesh, fluids, and bones on the metal walkway beneath her. </p><p>Slowly, she approached with her remaining hand holding her rapier, willfully ignoring the fact that Naberius was not left-handed, and that his soul was cowering in some corner of her own, howling like a frightened beast. </p><p>With a revelation, she identified the wet, pounding noise as someone’s heart. Her own was in her throat, then splashing in the pit of her stomach, then an angry hammer in her temple trying its best to split her skull, and then it seemed content to zigzag through her body at random like a jackrabbit on the run from a hunter. </p><p>Friend, or foe? </p><p>She almost laughed at herself. There were no friends right now. Just foes. </p><p>Foe. Foe. Foe foe foe <i>foe</i>—</p><p>The word continued to beat violently in her mind, unceasing, unrelenting, and it had her cavalier's voice. </p><p>Ianthe was increasingly unsure she could keep herself together, but nonetheless she continued toward the sounds of blood and flesh and humanity with all the desperation of a maggot. </p><p>………………………….</p><p>The Reverend Daughter’s one consolation in that dark stretch of time, bleeding out in that dark stretch of hallway, was that at least she wouldn’t ever have to see Marshal Crux’s face when he found out she had failed the Ninth House. Another spasm of pain rocked through her core. </p><p>Slowly, a scraping noise penetrated Harrowhark’s consciousness. It grew closer, and she recognized it as the sound of faltering footsteps. </p><p>She was too weak to move or even attempt to hide, but nonetheless she placed her hand on the hilt of the rapier sticking out of her ribcage as if she were simply using herself as a sheath and could draw the blade at any second, unhindered. </p><p>When the erratically limping figure did come into her plane of view, Harrowhark had an epiphany. </p><p>She had never been destined for happiness. </p><p>The crime of her birth was too great, and an aberration such as herself could only be granted suffering to pay for it. </p><p>Why else would she be presented not with an ally, or better yet an enemy bearing a swift end to her cursed life? Why else would the person now halted mid-step and staring at her in open-mouthed shock be none other than the Devil herself? </p><p>The universe, or God, was loudly and clearly telling Harrow that she deserved cruel things to happen to her. And so they had brought an agent of cruelty before her, one who had already previously  promised with glee to bring the destruction Harrowhark had earned. </p><p>This kernel of divine truth continued to unfold in her mind's eye. </p><p>She had been born a monster of frankensteined souls. She had committed the indelible sin and rolled away the rock. She had failed her cavalier when it mattered most. There was just one thing she could still offer. </p><p>Penance. </p><p>Penance perhaps, in saving the Ninth House yet, and marking at least one tally of goodness on the record of her life. To achieve such massive retribution, it must be paid for with suffering. </p><p>If there was anyone worthy to suffer, it was Harrowhark Nonagesimus at her lowest moment. </p><p>The only thing worse than dying right now would be to continue living, so in the end it made sense that that must be her punishment. </p><p>Ianthe Tridentarius was still staring at her with wide and fractal eyes, looking entirely unhinged. She was, of course, covered in blood and missing an arm, but one could tell from a glance that was only the tip of the iceberg of her current emotional state. </p><p>She took a step forward, then twitched back again, uncertain and throwing paranoid glances behind her. </p><p>“Tridentarius,” Harrow managed to croak. </p><p>“Nonagesimus. I hate to say it dear, but you are in terrible shape, and I think I’m being hunted so I don’t really have the time to help you.” </p><p>Of course. Of course nothing would be easy. She couldn’t just lie here and let the Devil collect her. She would have to work at it, convince the Beast that her soul was worth bartering. Harrowhark gritted her teeth. </p><p>“What if I help you get out of here safely? Two is better than one.” </p><p>Ianthe paused for a moment to consider this. At least, she stopped glancing about her frantically for a second. Her entire body seemed to be fraught with electricity and continued to vibrate and twitch slightly. </p><p>The stump of her right arm lifted momentarily, and then she seemed to remember it was not there to complete whatever action was intended. The blonde woman let out a hiss of pained frustration, and shook her head violently, as if trying to loosen someone’s voice from her skull. </p><p>“Not worth the benefit versus effort. I’m sorry.” Ianthe made as if to scurry away, to leave Harrowhark and her menagerie of souls and all hopes for the Ninth House behind, which she could not allow to happen. </p><p>The Reverend Daughter concentrated every ounce of effort within her and narrowly avoided screaming with pain as she attempted to stand. The most she got was to a crouched position on her knees and shins, breathing heavily. She looked up at the Lyctor before her and hoped she did not sound pathetic. </p><p>“If you assist me in escaping this House, Ianthe, I will annex the Ninth—and myself—to you and yours.” </p><p>The pressure physically dropped in the room as Ianthe’s body finally stilled with sharp focus upon her. Harrowhark continued. </p><p>“I cannot let it end like this. I cannot let this be the denouement of my people. Please.” </p><p>She had to look to the ground to force the final word out, so humiliating was it. But, she had done it. She had prostrate herself before her enemy and <i>pleaded</i>. If that was not enough, no one could say she had not tried everything. </p><p>An eternity of seconds, maybe three, stretched out in silence. Then Ianthe knelt face-to-face with her and reached out her surviving hand to cup Harrowhark’s cheek. </p><p>“I accept.”</p><p>Fractionally, the weight of the Locked Tomb, all the Ninth House’s inhabitants and history, and a very specific 200 souls, lessened on her shoulders. </p><p>“But Harrow, you have to promise to do exactly as I say to get out of this cursed building.” </p><p>The kaleidoscope eyes before her were desperate and unstable and tinged with something that scared Harrow to her core. But she nodded, because this was her punishment, and no matter how terrible it seemed, it was surely fair given her magnitude of crimes. </p><p>Ianthe’s eyes fluttered over her body, assessing what needed the most attention first. She offered up a quick, “I’m sorry,” then clinically jerked the rapier out of Harrowhark’s stomach. </p><p>The Reverend Daughter thought she might have screamed. It was hard to tell through the wave of pain that crashed over her. Eventually it crested and ebbed, and when her vision cleared of red, Harrow saw that there was no longer a hole in her abdomen, just an angry jagged ridge of scar tissue. </p><p>It was all that the new Lyctor could spare at the moment, and they both prayed it would be enough. Ianthe helped her rise to her feet and it seemed she could now hobble forward on her aching legs, with heavy assistance. </p><p>They stumbled through those claustrophobic corridors together for what seemed like hours. Occasionally they had to pause as the entire house would shake with violent rumblings. Some sort of fighting had to be going on. </p><p>Thrice, they nearly ran into more of those mysterious agents. The first two times they avoided contact by freezing in place and scarcely daring to breathe as voices and boots grew louder then faded. </p><p>The third time, Harrow managed to raise a cocoon of bone within the shelter of a shadow, and they leaned into one another, sharing muggy air as someone passed within combat range and continued onward unawares. </p><p>It was luck more than anything that eventually led their exhaustive search to an ancient and forgotten hangar with a small shuttle inside. It had a worn label on it, like a smiling face without eyes, and it was so tiny Harrow suspected it was intended to deliver objects and not people.</p><p>A storage closet of an escape pod, but it would do. </p><p>Ianthe claimed control of the tiny pilot’s cabin and waved Harrow off to “get some rest, you look like shit,” and if she was honest with herself, she agreed with the assessment. </p><p>So it was to the sound of humming engines, the touch of cold metal underneath her, the sight of Dominicus’s light shining softly through even the blackout curtains, and the sharp taste and smell of her own blood that Harrowhark succumbed to the darkness of an unpeaceful sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yes, I enjoy suffering. However, I also enjoy people getting better. If you are worried and concerned, allow me to reassure you that this is probably the lowest point everyone will reach---not that they will cope well by any means, at first. But this is the worst of it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Resurrection</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Meanwhile...</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gideon Nav woke up with a start. </p><p>Waking up at all was a surprise, but she wasn’t going to complain. </p><p>It was dark, and stuffy, and enclosed, and—holy shit, was she in a coffin?</p><p>Muffled, Gideon could hear voices and the mechanical hum of a spaceship. She tentatively poked one of the many pockets of her robe, and grinned to realize someone had failed to remove her knuckle knives. </p><p>Well. </p><p> It appeared that she had been kidnapped, and possibly dead(!), but she would unpack <i>that</i> later. </p><p>For now, she had one mission: find Harrowhark. </p><p>Time to bring hell.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Anddddd that's all we're gonna see of Gideon for a long, long time. Just wanted y'all to know she's still god's unkillable child!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Contract</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Harrowhark Nonagesimus regained consciousness, she appeared to be in some sort of very white room. </p><p>It was blinding to her dim-accustomed eyes, and she could not identify any specific objects for several minutes, which was irksome because someone rushed up to her and began speaking rapidly. The words were gibberish in her disoriented state, but she couldn't tune it out, loud and aggressively in her face as it was. </p><p>It was incredibly overwhelming. She felt adrenaline pumping into her system against her will, where it got trapped with nothing to fight and resolved into panic. Her hands were shaking. Everything was still blurry and so fucking <i>bright</i>—</p><p>The Reverend Daughter screwed her eyes shut and covered her ears with her hands, despite knowing how childish it must look. </p><p>That helped a little in dimming the lights and muffling the noise, but it didn't help her system panic. Harrow forced herself to breathe in and out evenly. She was better than this. </p><p>After she had mentally recited her first catechism, which had always calmed the Ninth nun, she opened one eye tentatively. </p><p>Painful amounts of light rushed in, but slowly, slowly, her vision adjusted. In front of her stood an attendant clad in more dizzying white, and they were holding a glass of water out encouragingly. </p><p>Weakly, Harrow reached out and took it. The medbay attendant—that had to be what this was, a medbay—smiled in a way that made her feel like she was an injured animal found in the wild by well-meaning but cautious vets. </p><p>She had read about such things, in one of her schoolbooks, and seen a sort of documentary in an ancient archive of the Ninth's library. </p><p>The water disappeared in small sips, and Harrow noticed that in an opposite corner of the room sat another attendant, this one sulking as if they had just been scolded ferociously. </p><p>Her attention was drawn back to the main one by a beeping noise. They were tapping nervously into a tablet, and when they felt Harrow's curious gaze, smiled up at her reassuringly. There was a hint of worry on the fringes of their eyes, however, and the Reverend Daughter had never enjoyed being condescended to. </p><p>She was annoyed at them for attempting it, and annoyed at herself for probably earning it with that weak display earlier, so she practically snapped when she spoke. </p><p>"Where am I?" </p><p>"The Erebos, Reverend Daughter," which explained absolutely nothing to her. </p><p>"What are you doing on that device?" </p><p>"Alerting that you're awake, Reverend Daughter." </p><p>Fine. They could be vague all they wanted. </p><p>Harrow sighed a little petulantly and resigned herself to waiting. </p><p>She only had to wait about 30 more seconds, it turned out, before none other than Ianthe Tridentarius strode purposely into the room. </p><p>She was draped in some sort of translucent white robe that looked oddly familiar to Harrow for some reason, and more importantly, she had two arms. </p><p>That didn’t seem right. Harrowhark distinctly remembered her losing one. Yet there it was again, albeit swathed in bandages and hanging rather limply at her side. </p><p>As her gaze took in more of the new Lyctor, more details filtered into the Reverend Daughter’s brain. </p><p>Ianthe looked like someone had taken bits of multicolored glass and shattered them over her eyes unless they were a meaningless mosaic of purple and blue and brown, all in sharp angles. There were heavy bags under them. She had clearly not been resting well. </p><p>In general there was a haunted feel to Ianthe, as if her newly ascended sainthood was a curse eating her up. Her steps were unsteady, her breaths shallow, and her eyes kept darting back and forth across the room, assessing threats from pockets of the room that did not appear to be occupied. Harrow could empathize. </p><p>The eighth saint gave a distracted wave with one arm, and the medical attendants in the room jumped to be the first to file out. Now they were alone. </p><p>Finally, and seemingly with great effort, the Princess of Ida focused all her attention on Nonagesimus lying in her cot. She fell into a chair and approximated a nonchalant pose. </p><p>“What do you remember, Harrowhark?” </p><p>What did she remember? Dulcinea revealing herself to be a Lyctor. A terrible fight interrupted by an unknown third party. Being hunted through winding corridors. A pool of blood—pain in her legs—Gideon’s beautiful gold eyes, but dulled—her cavalier’s body being taken away from her—Harrow remembered everything, and it was more than she could bear. </p><p>The wave of memory overwhelmed her system with despair and bore down on her shoulders like a physical weight, absolutely crushing her beneath it. She could not do this. She fundamentally could not do this. </p><p>An indeterminate amount of time later, the pain slowly subsided enough for Harrowhark to remember she was not alone. She uncurled from the fetal position she had fallen into and assessed the room. Across from her sat Ianthe, now her betrothed, and the woman did not look at ease. </p><p>She was staring intently at Harrow, one hand fidgeting restlessly. Was Ianthe actually something as mundane as nervous? The eyes that were levelled at her, though, belied nervousness. They were an inmate’s approximation of calm right before shoving a shank through their guard. It was the frenzied gaze of someone on a knife’s edge between damnation and divinity. The Princess of Ida had finally been promised what she had worked so hard for, but was scared someone would suddenly try to take it away. </p><p>Harrowhark felt a little like a mouse before a cat. She did not want to find out what would happen if she feigned to forget their deal. </p><p>Of course, she also had her honor: Ianthe Tridentarius had held up her end of the bargain fully. Harrow had not been planning on reneging now. Nevertheless, the dark-haired necromancer remembered that dinner, so long ago, when Ianthe had promised to “make her pledge allegiance to the Third on her knees and regret not doing it this day,” or something like that. <i>Well,</i> Harrow thought bitterly, <i>the first part had already come true.</i> </p><p>Perhaps if she put extra care into mollifying Ianthe’s tumultuous mind right now, it could spare her the second half of the promise. But she would have to commit herself. </p><p>“Ianthe,” she said in a softer tone than she was used to. </p><p>Harrowhark shakily stood up. Her betrothed became very still and watched her approach. Honestly, the blonde was an open book. Her expression now was plaintive, hard-edged with fear of rejection more than malice. </p><p>One spindly hand landed on Ianthe’s cheek with as much tenderness as Harrow could muster through her own instinctive fear at being this close and vulnerable to a Lyctor. Some primal part of her brain screamed warnings, and she smothered it. The other hand she ran through those pale locks, and was surprised to find them soft. </p><p>Ianthe did not twitch a single muscle, apart from letting her face be tilted up to meet Harrow’s gaze. She was pretty sure that the younger Tridentarius had stopped breathing altogether, actually. </p><p>Deliberately, the daughter of the Ninth sank lower, until her resolve broke like a dam and she crushed her lips against the Third’s wretchedly. </p><p>The woman beneath her made a noise that frankly embarrassed Harrow, and then there were fingers in her hair and a hand on her spine, pulling her closer. </p><p>She tasted victory in the chapped lips that kissed her back with a fervor, and it was sour on her tongue. However, Nonagesimus figured that appeasing the Devil was better than antagonizing her, especially after she had just placed so much of herself in the Beast’s care. </p><p>Fuck it. She really didn’t want Ianthe to remember promising to make Harrowhark suffer for turning her down once. </p><p>The Ninth heir slipped her tongue into the princess of Ida’s mouth, and Ianthe moaned hungrily before pressing the full length of their bodies together, practically pulling Harrow into her lap. </p><p>Harrow let herself be pulled, and she let the Lyctor set the pace. Her rational brain was metaphorically gagging in a corner, but (and she would never admit this in ten thousand years) her tiny homosexual brain realized that kissing was nice, actually, and the woman beneath her was somewhat soft. </p><p>Her rational brain, which knew <i>who</i> she was kissing, won. </p><p>Harrowhark hoped it had been enough, because she couldn’t take any more. She broke the kiss abruptly, forced herself out of the lingering grip Ianthe tried to establish, and stood at her full height, which was not much. </p><p>“I, Harrowhark Nonagesimus of the Ninth House, pledge myself in marriage to you, Ianthe Tridentarius. I promise to hold true to agreements previously made, and terms yet to be agreed upon. Should I break this pledge, I understand recompense shall be taken at the Third’s discretion.” </p><p>Ianthe stared at her dreamily for a second with parted lips and warm cheeks. Then everything in her focused to a sharp point, and she smiled like a knife on Harrow’s pulse, which she nervously recalled she had in fact endured before at Ianthe’s whim. </p><p>The Reverend Daughter gulped. </p><p>Her betrothed unwound herself from the chair like a loaded gun, and condescendingly took one of Harrowhark’s hands into her own. It was Nonagesimus’s turn to wait without moving. </p><p>Her black eyes tracked Ianthe’s brown-speckled ones as the blonde gracefully dropped to one knee before her. </p><p>Ianthe Tridentarius’s face gleamed and she declared, ”I pledge myself to the Ninth House’s heir in marriage. I promise to uphold all bargains previously made and those yet to be negotiated. I swear to be loyal to you, Harrowhark Nonagesimus, and gaze upon no other. If I go back on my word, let the Ninth take all the vengeance it wishes.” </p><p>She then kissed the tip of Harrow’s fingers as reverently as if she were taking the holy sacrament, and pulled something yet unseen out of her pocket. A ring. It was a surprisingly simple thing for the Third House, just a band of bone engraved with some sort of curling pattern. Harrowhark, for a moment, was touched as Ianthe slid it on her fourth finger. </p><p>Of course Ianthe had to quickly ruin the moment as she rose to her feet. </p><p>“Well my darling, I’ve sent the servants away. Shall I ravish you now to commemorate the occasion? Or would you prefer I light some candles first?” </p><p>Harrowhark blushed red against her will. </p><p>“There will be no ravishing, Tridentarius.” </p><p>“What, none ever? I know the Ninth is prudish, but surely even there marriages are consummated.” Ianthe looked distressed. “I mean, you just put your <i>tongue</i> in my <i>mouth.</i> Please don’t fuck with me, Harrow.” </p><p>“Of course we—not that I’ve ever—but yes, there is—what I mean to say is, I would very much like to save the consummating for the marriage. I, I insist upon it, that is.” Harrow exhaled sternly. </p><p>Ianthe grinned at her. </p><p>“Well, if you insist. More importantly, did you just say you’ve never had sex before?” </p><p>Harrowhark could hear the primness in her own voice as she responded, and was terribly afraid her face betrayed her complete inexperience in even talking about the matter. </p><p>“If you must know, I have not.” </p><p>“I don’t suppose, was that your first kiss, Nonagesimus?” </p><p>“It may have been.” </p><p>Ianthe positively glittered, and reached up to trace her own lips with wonder. </p><p>“Really? You never even experimented with that dashing cavalier of yours?” </p><p>At the mention of Gideon, Harrowhark’s entire being shut down immediately and forcefully. The half-ashamed heat that had found a home in her face drained to a dim chill, and she screwed her eyes shut for a long series of seconds. </p><p>Harrow, I’m sorry—” Ianthe started, but the Ninth adept cut her off with a raised hand. Her voice, as she spoke, held all the cold of the ossuary pits on Drearburh. </p><p>“Now that we’ve settled this matter, Tridentarius, I would appreciate some time alone to recuperate. Whenever you are ready to contract up the details of our betrothment, please send word. Have a pleasant day.” </p><p>And with that Harrowhark Nonagesimus turned away from the Lyctor to face the wall and hoped it would be enough. She didn’t have a real way of making her leave. She wasn’t even sure yet where they both were. </p><p>“Very well,” came Ianthe’s carefully polite reply, perhaps with a touch of regret. “ I wish you a speedy recovery.” </p><p>Footsteps retreated, and after a full minute had passed to be safe from eavesdropping, Harrowhark released the tension in her shoulders, collapsed to the floor and sobbed until she was empty.</p>
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